


You Say Potato, I Say Pomme de Terre...

by mirajanihiggins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Crime Scenes, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Misunderstandings, New Relationship, Speaking French, temporary brain injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:00:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12326946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirajanihiggins/pseuds/mirajanihiggins
Summary: An unexpected assault at a crime scene leaves Sherlock and John in a situation fraught with misunderstandings.





	You Say Potato, I Say Pomme de Terre...

**Author's Note:**

> Since my high school French classes were a long time ago, I would like to express my gratitude to Kaizokou_Emerald_Hime and Chocolamousse of AO3, who took the dialogue generated by a translation program and turned it into actual, readable French. You have my heartfelt thanks!
> 
> Note: ‘Jean’ is pronounced something like ‘Jhawn’, with a soft ‘j’, in French. Just sayin'...
> 
> English translations of Sherlock's dialogue are provided at the bottom. I understand this may cause a break in the flow of reading, but I wanted the reader to experience John's perspective while he was trying to communicate with a French-speaking Sherlock. I suggest reading it through without translation the first time. You can see why John gets a bit more frustrated with Sherlock than usual!

Another senseless shooting in a darkened, rain-slick street not far from Baker Street. A middle-aged man lay on the ground, his dark blood draining away and mixing with the puddled water on the pavement.

 

Sirens had aroused Sherlock from his after-dinner reverie. Without a word between them, Sherlock and John slipped on their respective coats and trotted down the way to where multiple panda cars sat with their lights strobing. Crowds were already beginning to gather, jostling each other for a better view.

 

Sherlock and John shouldered their way to the police barrier, where they identified themselves and were met by Detective Inspector Lestrade. He looked harried and just a bit surprised to see Baker Street’s illustrious Consulting Detectives arriving unsolicited.

 

“Evening, Sherlock. John,” he said, dipping his head slightly in recognition. “May I ask what brings you two out here? This isn’t really your style, is it? I mean, we know who the _victim_ is, we know who the _killer_ is, and we have a pretty good idea what the _motive_ is. So you boys can just go back to your game of Cluedo and leave this to the professionals.”

 

Sherlock snorted impolitely. “’Professionals’, Lestrade? _Really_ ,” he drawled as his eyeballs drew an elegant arc in the air. John smirked; he _knew_ what was coming. “I _suppose_ , and this is from what little I can see from here, that you have already spoken with the wife and her lover about this murder?”

 

Lestrade’s jaw dropped ever so slightly. He closed it. “What? I mean, how the _hell_ …?”

 

Sherlock’s smile broadened in a way that told Lestrade he was in for it. However, before Sherlock could open his mouth, Lestrade lifted the crime tape and ushered both of them under it.

 

“Go!” he commanded, waving his hand at the crime scene. “Do your own investigation! Just give me the pertinent information before you go.”

 

John and Sherlock exchanged conspiratorial smiles before approaching the body.

 

It didn’t take long. Sherlock was able to deduce that the crime was one of expediency, the wife and lover of the murdered man having hired someone to eliminate him from the equation. His cash was still in his wallet, which ruled out robbery. The knife attack had been from the front and there were no defensive wounds, so the victim had recognized and felt at ease with the killer, indicating an individual already known and possibly welcomed. Two sets of footprints in the gravel and wet pavement around the body, one leaving at speed and one leading to nowhere, indicating a car was waiting nearby, and blah blah blah…

 

John stood nearby, furiously taking notes. He had long since gotten used to Sherlock’s displays of deductive brilliance intellectually, but _physically_ …well, there was a tightening sensation in his pants that never seemed to get the memo. _Damn him. Glad I wore the longer jacket…_

 

“John?” A jostle at his elbow. “John! Are you woolgathering during an investigation?” John jolted back to the present to find Sherlock’s sharp quicksilver eyes peering into his own, concern and annoyance battling for dominance on his chiseled face.

 

A shake of the head, as if to clear it. “Sorry, sorry, drifted off there for a moment,” he apologized, yawning slightly. “Getting a bit late, y’know.”

 

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, for _you_ , it must be. Give me your notes and I’ll discuss them with Lestrade. Why don’t you go get a coffee and wait for me over by that building? I’ll be back as soon as I can shake him loose.” He winked and grinned before sauntering off toward the inspector and his men.

 

He picked up his coffee and waited. It took a bit longer than he had hoped for. So many questions! John just stood, one shoulder propped against the old red brick of the corner house, sipping from his cup while waiting for his flatmate to return. _Flatmate? More than that. Boyfriend? No, that sounds so_ _ **juvenile**_ _. Sweetheart? Only at home. Paramour? That sounds more…_

 

“Woolgathering again?” the mellifluous voice jarred him from his reverie. Sherlock loomed into view, finally. He took a swig of John’s coffee, made a face, and handed it back. “How can you drink that stuff? Vile. _Tea_ is so much more refined. Elegant, even.”

 

John’s nose wrinkled in response. “Yeah, just like you, you poncy prat.” John took his own sip from his unsweetened coffee, still steaming in its foam container. Sherlock leaned against the wall beside him. “Did you give them hell?”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock shrugged in his massive coat, his face impassive except for a tightness around his mouth, which always showed his impatience. “They could have seen the same things I did, if they had bothered to look. Idiots. I can explain my methods until Moriarty rises from the grave and they would _still_ be without a clue.”

 

A gentle nudge broke the spell. Sherlock’s beautiful face softened with a smile and his icy stare became liquid metal, warm and fluid. “So what were you thinking about while I was over there?” he teased, reaching up and brushing John’s hair away from his face. A breeze had picked up, wisping the strands into John’s face.

 

“I was thinking that, if I had my way, right now, I’d slam you up against this wall and take full advantage of you. Then, I’d whisk you home and see how many times I could nail you to the mattress before the sun rose,” John whispered, his eyes bright.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened as he considered John’s offer, a quirk of the lips indicating that he was not, in the least, offended.

 

“Not the time or place, John,” he murmured, bristling his shoulders against the night’s sudden cold wind.

 

John shrugged, suddenly all practicality. “You’ve done all the heavy lifting here. Lestrade can handle the rest. I just want to get you back home as soon as possible so I can have my way with you.” He took another sip, nonchalantly.

 

Sherlock leaned in and whispered, equally matter-of-factly, “Well, to be honest, I _was_ rather entertaining the notion of going home and sucking your cock until your skull imploded.”

 

John sputtered as hot coffee shot out of his nose. Sherlock grinned. “ _Two_ can play at _that_ game, John.”

 

“Saucy git,” John muttered, as he wiped his chin dry. His pants now barely held back a screaming, striking python waiting to be liberated. He looked around to make sure they were unobserved, then stealthily slid his free hand underneath Sherlock’s greatcoat and, wonder of wonders, found that the detective’s pants were waging an _equally_ spectacular battle with _their_ contents. He palmed it and was rewarded with a sudden hiss as Sherlock unceremoniously brushed his hand away.

 

“As I said, _not_ the time or place, John,” Sherlock growled, his arousal level already affecting his vocal quality. “We’ve only _just_ become a couple. I don’t think the general public is ready for a front-page photo of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson ‘getting it on’ at a crime scene.”

 

“People will talk,” John quipped, recalling their discussion at the pool.

 

Sherlock grinned down at him and replied, “People do little else.”

 

They both chuckled at the shared memory.

 

That was the last thing Sherlock remembered for quite some time.

 

>>>***<<<

 

“How is he today, doctor?” Mycroft asked, solicitously, as he entered the private hospital room containing his younger brother. His eyes darted to the quiet figure on the bed, attended by a worried John Watson.

 

“About the same as yesterday. The blood clots in his brain have not moved or grown, and the streptokinase is dissolving them slowly. I _wish_ we could have evacuated them properly, but some of them were a little too close to crucial brain structures to attempt.”

 

Mycroft’s eyes were riveted on the duo in the room. John was gently stroking Sherlock’s face and hair and speaking to him in a quiet but encouraging voice. “Yes,” Mycroft agreed, “my brother without sufficient command of the language would be a terrible thing indeed.” He couldn’t resist a snicker at the thought of a perpetually-silent Sherlock.

 

John, having overheard, glared at him. “Not funny, Mycroft.”

 

A wave of the hand dismissed the words. “Of course not, John,” he responded cavalierly. “We both know it would _kill_ my brother if he were unable to berate the police at a crime scene or to sass me back whenever the mood strikes him.”

 

John, still glaring, came around the foot of the bed and approached the two. “ _Still_ not funny. So, Mycroft,” he growled, “Have you and your minions of darkness found out who is responsible for this attack on Sherlock?”

 

Drawing himself up to his full imperious height, Mycroft donned his best impassive expression. “No need to worry about _that_ , John. The culprit and his drunken cohorts have been rounded up and interrogated. Seems that one of them decided, after having found a hard rubber ball lying on the street, that throwing it at the police would be somehow amusing. Unfortunately, he was a former star pitcher on his uni team and had quite the arm. His intended target moved at the last moment, so the projectile struck Sherlock in the left side of his head…,”

 

“…Causing it to slam into the brick wall to his right. Yeah, I know, I was there, remember?” John snapped in exasperation, running one hand over his face. “So he’s got multiple blood clots from the _coup contre-coup_ injury to his brain and the tearing of small blood vessels in the cortex and meninges. The hematomas are still putting pressure on his brain. God!” he howled, slamming a fist into the door jamb beside Mycroft, who, rather impressively, did _not_ jump in startlement, as the doctor did. “If I could have gotten Sherlock _out_ of there before…”

 

Uncharacteristically, Mycroft extended a hand and patted John on the shoulder solicitously, a faint look of dismay tainting his usually bland expression. “This is _not_ your fault, John. I know you like to protect him, but this was a one-off attack. _No one_ could have seen it coming.”

 

John looked back over his shoulder at his dearest friend, still unresponsive. His head was swathed in bandages following several small craniotomies to evacuate some of the more peripheral bleeds before they could cause damage.

 

John sighed, then straightened his shoulders in resolve. “If you need any help with the culprit…” He said, restrained menace in his tone.

 

Mycroft smiled his usual supercilious smile. “Oh, I have _that_ situation well in hand, John. The culprit will answer for his actions, never fear. I will make _sure_ of it,” he purred, in a tone that made John suddenly feel _very_ sorry for the suspect. Although Sherlock was convinced his brother was one of his nemeses, John knew better. Mycroft was as protective of Sherlock, in his own way, as John was in his.

 

“ _Jhawwwn_ ,” a croaking voice drawled from the well-made bed, followed by the sound of rustling sheets.

 

John sprinted to the bedside, almost knocking the bedside table over in his haste. He grabbed the slender, fragile-looking hand as it rose, shakily, off the mattress, as though the man who owned it might slip away from him at any second. He was delighted to see silvery eyes blink open before searching the room for him.

 

“Here, Sherlock. I’m here, love,” John whispered, Sherlock’s hand pressed desperately to his chest. The eyes turned to find him, a slow, pleased smile following shortly thereafter.

 

“Jhawn,” he slurred, his eyelids still at half-mast. John raised the hand he clutched and pressed it to his lips before returning his lover’s smile.

 

“Bien. C'est bien que tu sois là,”1 Sherlock murmured before slipping into sleep again.

 

John’s smile vanished in an instant. He turned his head to gauge Mycroft’s reaction.

 

Mycroft looked as surprised and concerned as he was. _That_ was a first.

 

“Okay, what the hell was _that_?” John sputtered, absolutely gobsmacked. “How…”

 

“I don’t know,” Mycroft answered softly, his eyebrows knit together in consternation. “Sherlock is quite adept at a number of languages, but his default has always been English, so…”

 

The doctor stepped forward and raised a finger for attention. “If I may…” and waited. When John and Mycroft turned to face him, he continued. “I believe I may have a possible answer. Due to the diffuse nature of the injuries to his brain, some of the bleeds must have occurred near or in a vital language center. If Mr. Holmes,” he nodded his head toward Sherlock, “knows multiple languages, some linguistic connections may have been corrupted or rerouted, causing him to use a secondary language as means of expression when the primary is unavailable.”

 

“And this change,” John asked, scratching his head as he tried to wrap his brain around this explanation. “Is it…is it permanent? Or is there a chance he’ll return to normal, physically _and_ mentally?” He was a little surprised at how his voice quavered ever so slightly.

 

After adjusting his glasses in thought, the doctor stated, “Unknown. It will depend upon whether the damage is reversible or not, and whether or not it extends to other areas. As I said before, we are dissolving the hematomas as quickly as possible to re-establish a viable blood supply, but if the brain has already been starved of oxygen, or if new bleeds occur, then…” He spread his hands helplessly.

 

Meaningful glances united John and Mycroft’s eyes. Dread washed over John, causing him to shiver. _This can’t be happening. Can’t lose him. Not now. Not fucking now…_

 

>>>***<<<

 

John kept vigil at Sherlock’s bedside, sleeping fitfully in a convalescent chair in a corner to stay out of the way of the nurses. One ear and one eye were always open, waiting for a single word or movement from the bed. He often started when someone came into the room until Mycroft put an end to the constant stream of people. “Dr. Watson is perfectly capable of keeping tabs on my brother,” he stated, his tone uncompromising. “I have complete and utter confidence in his abilities.”

 

After that, John slept--when he _did_ sleep—half-draped over the bed and Sherlock, one hand resting on the other’s heart.

 

Finally, there was movement again. Silver eyes fluttered open and scanned the room for one person, the only person who truly mattered to him.

 

“Jhawn?” So softly, ever so softly, Sherlock called to the man sprawled across his abdomen.

 

John stirred, his hand splaying flat against Sherlock’s chest. “Hmmhm? Sherlock?” he responded, groggily. He raised himself on one elbow and smiled up at his friend. “How you doing?”

 

“Aussi bien que possible, je pense, considérant que je me réveille dans un lit d'hôpital, la tête enveloppée de bandage et ne sachant pas comment je me suis retrouvé ici,”2 Sherlock responded, shrugging ever so slightly. His gaze sharpened once he saw John’s perplexed expression. “Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, Jean? Y a-t-il quelque chose entre mes dents?” 3

 

The problem-solving nature of the conversation brought a brief half-smile to John’s thin lips. _At least his reasoning seems to be intact_. “Sherlock, do you hear yourself?”

 

Sherlock scowled most becomingly. John usually loved it when that deep line between his eyes manifested itself, but, in this case,…

 

“Bien sûr, Jean! Quel est le problème...?” 4

 

“And do you understand me?”

 

Deep sigh for an idiotic question. “Encore une fois, oui, Jean! Où veux-tu en venir? ” 5

 

John leaned in, until his face was mere inches from his lover’s, and whispered, “You’re speaking French, love.”

 

Silvery eyes widened in surprise as the impact of John’s words sank in. “Je parle français? Maintenant? Comment?” 6

 

“Neurologist said something about possible damage to the language pathways in the brain. Your neural network is bypassing the damaged or non-functional areas so that you can communicate.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes unfocused for a few moments as he considered this explanation. “Donc, mon centre moteur du langageanglais est inutilisable pour le moment...Attends, qu'est-ce qui s'est exactement passé pour causer tout ça ?” 7

 

John shook his head and raised his hands in defeat. “Sherlock…I can’t...”

 

He watched as Sherlock’s shoulders slumped in dismay. For Sherlock to be unable to speak and make himself understood…

 

_He’ll explode. I can just see it now. Little bits of Sherlock all over the flat._

 

Sherlock leaned toward John and used his hand, thumb and finger touching, to punctuate his words. “Que...s'est-il...passé, Jean?”8

 

“You want to know what happened?” John ventured.

 

Sherlock laid back with a sigh of relief. “Oui, s’il te plait.”9

 

John nodded as he sat down on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock’s hips and proceeded to explain the events of the past few days. Sherlock said nothing, in and of itself a bad sign. Mr. Punchline was silent as the grave for the duration of John’s speech.

 

“It’s still early days, though, Sherlock. The doctors here are top notch; they’ll find _something_ …”

 

A tremulous hand rose from the bed and angled in front of Sherlock’s face as he stared at it.”Et mes autres centres moteur? Qu'en est-il de ceux-là?”10 he asked, voice impassive, as if he were examining a new specimen and not his own hand. When John looked blank, Sherlock grasped one hand with the other and stated, clearly, “Centre moteur? Bon ou mauvais?”11

 

John’s face lit up. “Ohhh! Well, I believe the motor centers are all intact, since all reflexes tested positive upon admission. Can you move your arms and legs for me?”

 

He turned to watch as Sherlock carefully and methodically tested, first, his lower extremities, and, then, his core muscles. He smiled tentatively. “Tout semble fonctionner correctement.”12

 

John shook his head, his mouth straight-lining. “Sherlock, love, I don’t understand most of what you’re saying. Uni was a long time ago, and I only took a year of French anyhow.”

 

Sherlock scowled briefly, then extended his hand with purpose. No apparent tremor marred the movement. “Téléphone.”

 

“Sherlock, talking on the phone won’t help…”

 

Massive eye roll, followed by a pantomime of pressing keys in his palm.

 

“Ohhhhh, you want to text!”

 

A quick nod. “Oui. Peut-être puis-je contourner le problème en utilisant le language écrit plutôt que l'oral.”13

 

“And a good day to you, _too_ , sir,” John quipped. He was pleased to see Sherlock laugh again. It made him feel that, perhaps, normality could piece itself back together again at some point.

 

>>>***<<<

 

After several days, it was determined that there were no new intracranial bleeds and the blood clots had been successfully dissolved. CAT scans showed no new damage and resolving ischemia in the affected parts of the brain. One area, however, seemed to still be affected.

 

“Bien sûr, c'est sûrement ce qui m'empêche de parler ma langue natale”14 Sherlock observed, somewhat unnecessarily. At John’s pointed look, he sighed melodramatically and started tapping on his phone keyboard before holding it up in front of John’s face.

 

John read the words and nodded. “Yes, that area is still not functioning correctly and your brain has rerouted your speech pathways elsewhere, _hopefully_ temporarily.” His mouth twisted in frustration. “However, once you’re discharged from hospital, we may have to get you a crime-scene translator for a while.” When Sherlock scowled at the thought, he added, hastily, “Only for as long as the condition lasts, of course. We have _every_ _reason_ to believe it _will_ resolve.”

 

Still scowling, Sherlock leaned close to John’s ear and said, “Et devrions-nous avoir un traducteur dans notre chambre aussi, Jean? Ne serait-ce pas un peu ... étrange? Pour ne pas dire intrusif .”15

 

“ _Sherrrlocckk_ …”

 

With an audible growl, Sherlock tapped out what he had tried to say and held up the phone.

 

John had to stifle a laugh, even though Sherlock obviously considered this to be a sticking point. He lovingly caressed the side of Sherlock’s face, running a thumb over a not-as-sharp-as-it-used-to-be cheekbone and whispered back, “I think I’ll be able to figure out what you want, love. You’re not exactly a great talker in the bedroom, anyway, are you?”

 

A lovely shade of pink crept over Sherlock’s face and his eyes dropped self-consciously. They had only recently become lovers, and Sherlock had proven himself to be remarkably shy initially, no doubt due to painful rejections he’d received in the past. John kissed the corner of his overfull lower lip and nuzzled his cheek. “We’ll manage, love. We’ll manage.”

 

Sherlock purred. No translation necessary.

 

>>>***<<<

 

It had been a fortnight since Sherlock had been discharged from hospital. There had been no need for physical therapy or medical follow-up save for that pesky language problem.

John and Sherlock had, indeed, been able to surmount the language problem in the bedroom with remarkable ease. The rest of the time, their communications consisted either of texting, if it was important, or charades, if it was not. John also spent time brushing up on his French, which was _seriously_ rusty. Somehow, they _did_ manage, although, occasionally, Sherlock would became frustrated and shout “PUTAIN!” 16 into the air. At that point, John knew that a kiss and a declaration of love went a long way toward resolving the issue.

 

“I love you, you silly git.”

 

“Je t'aime aussi, mon petit soldat.”17

 

To cut down on communication problems during Sherlock’s convalescence, they spent most of their time in bed.

 

Finally, one typically cloudy day, Lestrade showed up on their doorstep, requesting that they attend a new crime scene. Even before John could mention it, Lestrade put up a hand and said, “We already have arranged for an interpreter to be on site. A good one; I know how fast Sherlock can talk.”

 

At the crime scene, Sherlock, as usual, astounded and pissed off the detectives at the scene with his rapid-fire observations and deductions. John wrote down everything in his notes, but was frustrated that the interpreter _seemed_ to be paraphrasing many of Sherlock’s statements, possibly at the request of one of Lestrade’s higher-ups who knew Sherlock’s second-hand reputation.

 

Sherlock noticed this, too; after all, he could _understand_ English, even if he wasn’t _speaking_ it. At one point, he pulled both Lestrade and the interpreter aside and unleashed a torrent of abuse upon them that John never did document, since the interpreter quit on the spot. Lestrade’s face said it all— _what am I going to do with this maniac?_

 

“Lestrade,” John said, as he pulled the flustered DI to the side. “Might I suggest you obtain an _army_ interpreter? He’ll probably be better able to stand up to Sherlock’s tirades _and_ will also translate _exactly_ what is being said. I will take the notes, as usual, and give you the, uh, _sanitized_ version. It will spare your people from Sherlock’s outburst, yeah?”

 

“Yeah, all right,” Lestrade nodded, defeated, one hand rubbing the back of his head as if he’d been struck by a 2x4. “Sounds like a plan, John. Can you…?”

 

John nodded. “Yeah, I know a couple of good men who could probably deal with Sherlock. They’ve worked in battle zones, so they’re used to being shot at.”

 

Both men chuckled as Sherlock, off to one side, glared at them. Lestrade went over to explain the plan to him while John contacted his former unit to request an interpreter.

 

>>>***<<<

 

It had seemed like _such_ a good idea at the time…

 

Headquarters had sent the best. A young soldier, tall, blond, and strapping. Sherlock’s head snapped around when uniformed young man ducked under the crime scene tape. His eyes widened and John fancied he could _see_ the burgeoning erection under Sherlock’s belstaff coat. John could appreciate why, but it didn’t make it any easier to watch as his new lover react so… _obviously_. It suddenly made John realize a few things he would had preferred to have forgotten; that he was average in appearance, short, middle-aged, losing his military figure, and, possibly, might not be able to hold the attention of the one thing he loved more than life itself—Sherlock.

 

The pairing was perfect. The army interpreter was able to keep up with Sherlock’s quick patter and translated his words exactly, _including_ the invective aimed at any hapless detective or investigator nearby. To his credit, he barely cracked a smile when Sherlock laid into one technician for moving a piece of evidence one millimeter while photographing it.

 

Sherlock smiled widely and often while conferring with his new interpreter. Unfortunately, this fact was not lost on John, who found himself feeling rather third-wheelish while the two worked together. And if Sherlock noticed the sullen look on his friend’s face, he didn’t comment. He just went on, as usual, displaying his brilliance and wit before the young soldier, who appeared to be just as entranced as John was.

 

_Show off_ , John thought angrily.

 

_Of course I’m a show-off. That’s what we_ _ **do**_ , he heard the response in his head. He whipped around to see if Sherlock had whispered in his ear, but no such luck. There he was, flirting with the interpreter, who was obviously flattered by the attention being paid to him by such an attractive man.

 

_Attractive, hell. Fucking beautiful is more like it._ And John was the one to know it as truth.

 

Sherlock caught John’s eye from where he stood with the interpreter and smiled, nodding in acknowledgment. John’s mouth twisted unpleasantly as he turned away and pretended to consult his notes. _That’s what I get for falling in love with a fucking sociopath. God only knows what that injury did to his brain. Maybe it changed him in ways I can’t see yet._

 

There was an odd stinging in his eyes as he closed his notebook and walked back toward Baker Street alone.

>>>***<<<

 

John was busy typing up his notes, comfortably ensconced in his time-worn old chair when Sherlock bounded up the stairs. He whipped off his coat and hung it on the back of the parlor door as usual, then turned to face John, a broad smile lighting up his gorgeous face.

 

“Jean! Tu m'a laissé seul sur une scène de crime! Pourquoi tu ne m'as pas dit que tu partais?”18

 

John ignored him. He bent his attention solely to the irregular pecking out of letters on his laptop. _Cheeky bugger_.

 

He noticed that Sherlock had slid wordlessly across the room to stand at the arm of John’s chair. _Still_ he refused to acknowledge him. _Stand there and rot, you flirtatious bastard_.

 

“Jean.” Softly.

 

Without bothering to look up, John growled, “My name isn’t Jean, it’s _John_ , and I think you’re wasting your time trying to butter up an old fossil like me. Why don’t you go back to your new, hot, army boyfriend?”

 

“ _Quoi_? Mais de quoi tu parles?” 19 Sherlock asked, his nose squinching up in puzzlement. He knelt down next to John, eyes pleading. “Il est seulement traducteur. _Tu_ es mon ‘sexy petit ami de l'armée’."

 

“I’m not French, arsehole.” With heat.

 

Sherlock sighed, closing his eyes as he composed himself.

 

Tap tap tappity tap taptap…

 

A phone was thrust in front of his face. It read: **He is only an interpreter.** _ **You**_ **are my ‘hot army boyfriend’.**

 

“Yeah, not so much now that you’ve met ‘what’s-his-name’,” John groused as he turned to finally look at Sherlock, whose face was, for once, on a level with his own. “What exactly _is_ his name, Sherlock? Honey Bunch? Sugar Lips? What?”

 

Sherlock looked vaguely offended. His nose wrinkled in distaste. “ _Rien de_ _tout_ , Jean! Son nom est effectivement Wilfred et, par une coïncidence _incroyable_ , il se trouve être le fils d'un couple d'amis de mes parents.”

 

The top of the laptop slammed shut pointedly.

 

Tap tappitytaptap tap taptaptaptap…

 

**None of the above, John. His name is actually Wilfred and, by an amazing coincidence, he's the son of one of my parent's friends.**

 

As soon as John’s face registered the requisite astonishment, Sherlock continued, “Quelle piètre opinion as-tu de moi, Jean, si tu penses que je peux t'abandonner pour aller avec un autre homme, même un plus jeune?”

 

Angry expression, opened mouth, finger raised…

 

TAP TAPTAPTAP TAPATAPA TAP TAP…with emphasis

 

**What must your opinion of me be, John, if you think I would abandon you for another man, even a younger one?**

 

Mouth snapped shut, finger lowered. Contrite expression followed.

 

“Yeah, you’re right, Sherlock. Guess I was feeling a bit like I was being pushed to the side by a newer model.”

 

Tapatapatap tappity tappity taptap…

 

**I love you, you incredible idiot. You and me against the world, remember?**

 

_Damn my eyes, always tearing up at the wrong times._ “Yeah. You and me against the world.”

 

“Mais, bien sûr!”20

 

John sighed. “Now, when is this stupid game going to stop, genius?”

 

“As soon as you stop acting like a green-eyed monster, you prat.”

 

John started. He had been joking, but now…”When?” he asked, angrily.

 

His lover smiled. “It’s been returning in bits and pieces over time but it was just… _easier_ to continue in French until complete fluency in my native language returned.”

 

John could feel his face heating up. His left fist clenched and unclenched a few times before he spoke again. “You…you manipulative _cock_! You fucking…”

 

Sherlock grinned. “…me, in our bedroom, right now!” he finished, grabbing John by the wrist and dragging him out of his chair and in the direction of their bedroom. “I’ve been thinking about a lot of things I would like to say to you in there…now that I _can_.” He stopped just short of the bed and turned around, dropping John’s hand. Hands on hips, he said “So, you have a choice, John. You can be angry with me and miss an _incredible_ opportunity, or…”

 

John’s hands shot out, landing flat on Sherlock’s chest and shoving him backwards onto the bed. “No ‘or’, you smug little twat,” he growled, as he launched himself onto the bed on top of Sherlock. “I owe you some serious payback for all the worry I’ve had to endure because of you!”

 

Serious snogging ensued.

 

When they both came up for air, Sherlock murmured, “Je t'adore, mon petit soldat.”21

 

John laughed in relief. “Yeah, I love you, too, you magnificent bastard.”

 

 

Translations/corrections courtesy of Kaizokou_Emerald_Hime and chocolamousse of AO3.

Note: ‘Jean’ is pronounced something like ‘Jhawn’, with a soft ‘j’, in French. Just sayin’...

1 “Good. It is good that you are here.”

2 “As well as can be expected, I suppose, considering I find myself in a hospital bed with bandages around my head and no idea how I got here.”

3 “What’s wrong, John? Do I have something in my teeth?”

4 “Of course, John! And your point is…?”

5 “Again, of course, John. What are you getting at?”

6 “I’m speaking French? Now? How?”

7 “So, my English centers are unusable for the moment…wait, what, exactly, did happen to cause this?”

8 "What...happened, John?"

9 "Yes, please."

10 “And my motor centers? What of those?”

11 "Motor? Good or Bad?"

12 ” Everything appears to be in working order.”

13 “Yes. Perhaps I can work around the problem using the motor centers instead of the verbal ones.”

14 “Of course, that must be what is preventing me from speaking my native language.”

15 “And shall we have a translator in our bedroom, too, John? Wouldn’t that be a bit…strange? Not to mention intrusive.”

16 "Shit!"

17 "I love you, too, my little soldier."

18 "John! You left me at the crime scene? Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?"

19 "What? What are you talking about?"

20”But, of course.”

21 "I adore you, my little soldier."


End file.
